Roan

by Jennifer Blake

  Roan broke into the open in time to see the boat swerve away from the shallow shoreline. Beau was in the lake, splashing after it with his ruff standing like a lion’s mane. The man crouched on the forward seat pulled something from the waistband at his back, something that caught a dull gleam from the starlight. He brought it around, leveled it at Beau.

  In a single movement, Roan slid to a halt, pulled his handgun, steadied it and fired. The shot cracked out, and a furrow skimmed across the water directly in front of the boat. The two men yelled and ducked. The speeding craft fishtailed, then straightened with a churning wake and zoomed away toward the safety of the lake’s deep-water channel.

  Roan narrowed his eyes, following the boat as long as he was able. The men in the boat were blurred with darkness and movement, but appeared to be the same two caught by the convenience store camera. The boat was probably a rental from the bait stand at the public landing. He’d have that checked out first thing in the morning.

  Roan lowered his weapon. It would have been easy to pick off those two instead of shooting ahead of them. It wasn’t an option. For one thing, he might be wrong, and the last thing he needed was the death of some teen delinquent on his conscience. Most of all, it wasn’t his way.

  He whistled to Beau, but still stared after the boat with brooding anger. He wanted his hands on Donna’s pals so bad he ached with it. They held the answers to all his questions about his houseguest. Coming so close to collaring them was so frustrating he wanted to stomp up and down and curse and kick stumps like the most backward redneck who ever lived.

  He should be used to coming up empty; Lord knows it happened often enough in his line of work. This time was different; it was personal. Why it should be that way, beyond the fact that the men had been on his land, he wasn’t prepared to explore. It was just the way he felt.

  Beau emerged from his plunge in the lake and gave himself a mighty shake that sprayed water like a cold shower. Roan launched into a half bitter, half humorous complaint while giving the hound the rough caresses and praise that made him happy. Then the two of them turned back toward Dog Trot.

  The dog scouted ahead in a weaving pattern, his nose to the ground. Just before they broke from the cover of the trees into the yard at the back of the house, Beau growled low in his throat and stood at point.

  “Aw, jeez, Beau,” Jake drawled from out of the night. “Don’t you know Donna yet?”

  Roan thought the dog was being more dutiful than anything else, since he was wagging his tail. As the bloodhound moved on again, he followed to where Donna and Jake stood at the edge of the brick patio with light from the kitchen window spilling over them.

  “Did I lock you out or something?” His voice was hard, even in his own ears, but this second failure to follow instructions was even less acceptable than the first.

  Jake ducked his head an instant, but didn’t retreat. “We were in the house until we heard the shot and were afraid something happened to you. What was going on?”

  “I fired as a warning because they drew down on Beau.” He should have known they’d be worried. And it took a second for Roan to realize he’d included Donna in that, maybe because she was so pale and silent. He’d give a lot to know what was really going through her mind. And he was going to find out, as soon as he could make an opportunity.

  “They were hightailing it, huh? You see who it was or what they were after?” Jake asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  “You can bet it wasn’t any treasure hunters. They came too close to the house.” Roan’s son frowned as he glanced at Donna. “You think they’ll be back?”

  Roan tightened his hold on the weapon he still carried, but replied only, “Hard to say.”

  “I mean, they could try sneaking in again tonight if they thought we weren’t on guard because we’d already run them off. They have to be mighty brassy to risk coming in here. Or mighty desperate.”

  Sometimes Jake was too bright for his own good, Roan thought. With a nod in the direction of the dog pen, he said, “If they do come back, it won’t be any time soon. Why don’t you take Beau and go let the other hounds out for the night?”

  “Now?” Jake asked in an incredulous tone.

  “Now, as an advance warning system.” Roan didn’t raise his voice, but his tone said plainly that he was in no mood for argument.

  Jake looked from him to Donna, then back again, as if he suspected there was more than one purpose behind the order. Still, he went without further argument.

  Roan followed the boy with his gaze, partly as a safety precaution, but also to be sure he was out of earshot. But before he could turn back to Donna, she said, “It was Big Ears and Zits again, wasn’t it?”

  “Looked like it to me.”

  “It also looks as if they waited until you were gone to make their move.”

  Her tone was taut but composed. Where was the panic at this second attempt to retake or even kill her? He said, “And that shows they’ve been watching the house.”

  She gave a short nod. “I’d say it also means that Dog Trot isn’t safe.”

  She was right, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. At least she hadn’t blamed him directly. Nor did she need to, since he could take care of that just fine all by himself. In his own defense, he said, “I might have a better idea of how to guard against them if I knew what was going on. And if I didn’t have to worry about my son acting as your knight protector.”

  “I’m sorry if you think I should have kept him inside. He said he’d had weapon safety training and that you arranged for him to practice on the rifle range set up for your deputies and the town police. He seemed to know what he was doing.”

  “Feeling guilty are you?” he asked, his tone silky. It was interesting that she might. He hadn’t expected anything of her, which made it interesting that she expected something from herself.

  “By no means, Sheriff. Moving in with you wasn’t my idea.”

  Was that how she thought of her sojourn at Dog Trot, moving in with him? “So whatever happens is on my own head? Even if I’m left fighting shadows in the dark?”

  “I could tell you that I’m as much in the dark as you are, but I doubt you’d believe me.”

  Her tone was moody and not particularly hopeful. It was just as well, since she was right.

  In the faint light of the moon, he could just make out that she was wearing shorts and a red T-shirt. She had on no underwear; that much was plain from the way the soft cotton knit draped over her breasts, outlining the tight buds of her nipples. The knowledge of her nakedness under her scant clothing acted like an aphrodisiac. Combined with the adrenaline still pumping in his system, it gave him impulses that he had no business entertaining.

  He needed to get away from her, to let his temper cool before he said, or did, something that he would regret. But something was driving him, some deep-seated fury that was directed at her, yes, but also at himself and the whole impossible prisoner-jailer situation. He hated what he was having to do, but he had no choice. He hated what she was, but it couldn’t be changed. Somewhere beneath all that was virulent attraction that was getting harder and harder to control.

  It had begun the minute he knelt beside her and saw the face of the woman he’d shot, and had grown every day since. He’d stood at her bedside for countless hours as she slept, memorizing every inch of her face, inhaling her scent, fantasizing about the contours of her body under the sheet. He felt responsible for her in some primitive way that he didn’t even try to understand. Still, it was more than that. He wanted her with a useless ache of the heart that he hadn’t felt since he was a boy longing to believe in the magic of Christmas morning while knowing that Santa Claus was a lie.

  The clothes she had on were the same ones he’d thrown in the dryer just before supper. She must have retrieved them after he left. It was a sign that she was getting around a lot better than he’d thought, better than he might have expected. He latched on to that idea like a lifeline.


  “You were too tired to sit up this afternoon, but now I find you out chasing after Beau. A miraculous recovery, wasn’t it?”

  “Amazing what a little rest can do.”

  The words were flippant enough, but the edges of her voice were taut with strain. He tipped his head toward the black stand of woods around them. “You sure there was no midnight rendezvous?”

  “With Jake along for kicks? What an opinion you have of me, Sheriff—bondage play and seducing a teenager, all based on a piece of film that doesn’t mean a thing because I was coerced.”

  “Were you, though? Or were you along for the excitement? If that’s what you need, you don’t have to settle for the kind supplied by lowlifes like your Zits and Big Ears.”

  The light from the kitchen windows slanted across half her face. In it, she looked suddenly wary. “Meaning?”

  “It can be supplied a lot closer to home,” he answered in tight challenge.

  “If you think for one minute…”

  “I’m not thinking at all,” he answered, his voice dropping to a lower note. “Which is the problem.”

  Hard on the words, he reached for her. With instinctive care for her injured shoulder, he brought their bodies together in exact alignment. His senses filled with the heat of her skin, her sweet distinctive fragrance, her quick breaths and the way her breasts molded against his chest with delicious, resilient pressure. The sudden onslaught made his mind reel. She fit the hollows and hard planes of his body as if made for him alone. Nothing had ever been so right, so perfect.

  He wanted to take her away somewhere and kiss her for a million years, to taste the deep recesses of her mouth and trace the tender curves of her lips with slow, honeyed care. He wanted to know every inch of her, to fill his hands with her, surround her, hold her, until this deep hunger inside him for possession was appeased. He wanted never to let her go.

  God, he was going crazy.

  Her face was upturned, the silver glint of moonlight touching her cheeks but leaving her expression unreadable. A waiting stillness seemed to hold her, or perhaps it was reluctance to move for fear of pain. He lowered his head and took her smooth, cool lips with his hot, hot mouth.

  For long moments, she remained quiescent in his arms. Then the fingers of her good hand slowly closed on the taut muscle of his upper arm. She made a low murmur in her throat and moved closer against him, into him, as if in need of the contact. She allowed the briefest of access, the most tingling of brushes from his tongue against hers, permitted an elusive taste of her sweet essence.

  Then she clenched her fingers on a fistful of his shirtsleeve and shoved at him. He was forced to either let her go or hurt her. As he stepped back, she demanded, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  It was a good question. Before he had time to answer, he heard the panting and thudding footfalls of the dog pack Jake had released. Suddenly they were encircled by dogs that pushed and jostled them in their pleasure at being free of their pen.

  “Down!” Roan ordered as he caught Donna’s arm. The dogs tucked tail and subsided, backing away to give them room. Roan turned with his prisoner toward the oblong of light that was the kitchen door. At the same time, Jake strolled out of the darkness with his weapon over his shoulder.

  “Good grief,” Donna said in shaken tones that might have been from distress over the onslaught of hounds, but could have been from something else entirely. “Dogs, guns, weird food, and late night visitors—is it always this way?”

  “Nah,” Jake answered with a crooked grin, when Roan failed to comment. “Sometimes it gets really strange.”

  “I hope I’m not around to see it!”

  She didn’t wait for more, but pulled away from him and walked into the house. Roan watched her go with narrowed eyes.

  She would be around, because he was going to make sure of it. She’d be around whether she wanted to be or not; she was a prisoner, not a guest, and it was time she realized it. He had an idea, one it might take a few day to put into action. When it was in place, their relative positions should be crystal clear.

  It was time, and then some. They were going to have to start playing this strictly by the rules. Before it was too late.

  10

  Tory spent most late afternoons over the next few days on the screened porch on the upper floor of Dog Trot. It faced southeast, so was protected from the westward slanting sun and caught stray breezes off the lake. From its second-floor elevation, she could watch the rippling water through the trees, catch sight of an occasional blue heron or silver-white crane. The screen that kept out flying insects and wind-borne trash also gave the illusion of a private retreat from which to view the world.

  She’d brought a book she’d found on forensics with her to read this afternoon while stretched out on the chaise longue that, with a collection of wrought iron chairs and tables, made the porch like an outdoor room. It lay beside her, however, as she stared out over the water. She couldn’t concentrate on its pages for thinking of that night nearly a week ago. It wasn’t the puzzle of why Zits and Big Ears were so determined to get to her that they’d risk prowling around the sheriff’s house that troubled her, but something else entirely.

  The sheriff had kissed her. It was the last thing she’d expected.

  Oh, she’d felt the awareness between them that told her he was attracted to her in a purely physical fashion. Still, he had said plainly that she had nothing to fear from him while at Dog Trot. She’d believed him, had truly thought the restraints of his office and his dedication to duty would prevent him from touching her.

  Did she mind? She wasn’t sure.

  Roan Benedict had kissed her. He had touched his mouth to hers, and she’d felt the world shift on its axis. This backcountry sheriff with his unbending rectitude and old-fashioned manners packed more punch into a single kiss than any man she’d ever met, certainly more than poor Harrell had managed in all the weeks they been together.

  A part of the reason she’d ended her engagement was because she’d decided she couldn’t take a lifetime of Harrell’s paint-by-numbers attempts at foreplay, had never been quite stirred enough by it to go to bed with him. Not that she had much to compare it against, really. Indiscriminate sex was seriously stupid these days from a health standpoint, but it was also true that not many men moved her. She felt that if she didn’t care for the way they kissed, she wouldn’t care much for the rest of it. She’d tried to be satisfied with Harrell because she wondered, finally, if she hadn’t been too particular.

  What did it mean, the sheriff’s kiss? Or did it have any meaning beyond the impulse of the moment? He had suggested once that he had a hidden motive for bringing her here. Was this it?

  And if it was, did she want to do anything about it? Or should she encourage him in hope that he’d be more likely to accept that she was kidnapped and release her? To use the physical attraction between them went against the grain, but it was the only possible advantage she had at the moment.

  The endless questions circled in her head as she watched the sun drop down behind the trees and sunset colors streak the sky. Added to everything else, they made her tired beyond words. She closed her eyes, trying to shut them out.

  The brush of something warm against her ankle roused her from a light sleep. Beauregard, she thought. The big dog was fast becoming a nuisance, though secretly she had to admit that she was fond of his company, especially the ambling walks they often took around the grounds near the house in the evening. How he had managed to find his way out onto the porch, she didn’t know. She was sure she’d closed the door behind her.

  The warm breeze off the lake was pleasant as the sun’s heat faded. She didn’t want to be disturbed. Not yet, anyway. Draping her forearm across her eyes, she said, “Go away. That’s a good boy.”

  The pressure on her ankle firmed. It was hard and encircling, nothing at all like Beau nudging her for attention or the friendly lick of his tongue. She jerked away. At the same time, she snappe
d open her eyes and pushed herself upright.

  Roan knelt at her feet. The evening light beyond the screen burnished his sandy hair to gold, and caught bronze gleams from the hair on his arms. His gray gaze was steady, and his mouth firm with purpose. His arm was braced on one flexed knee, and from his fingers dangled a thick ring of black plastic.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice suddenly husky.

  “Installing a monitor.”

  She eyed the device in his hand that appeared to have a small LED display with a blinking light set into the plastic. “To monitor what?”

  “You. Your comings and goings.”

  She pulled her feet up and wrapped her good arm protectively around her knees. “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s just an electronic device. It won’t hurt you,” he said, the planes and angles of his face stern as he dangled it in front of her. “A guy who used to be one of my deputies sells the things now. This is his latest model.”

  It was a little like a scuba diver’s watch, only bigger, Tory thought, with holes evenly spaced in the plastic cuff-like band to allow for air circulation. With a tight smile, she said, “And I suppose you want to test it on me?”

  “Something like that.” He waited, his gaze watchful.

  “It’s like a gadget out of a James Bond movie. Does it shoot laser beams or use radio waves like a walkie-talkie?”

  “Neither.” He hefted the device, his gaze shuttered. “It’s more like…an electronic handcuff.”

  “Like kind of space-age bondage sex toy?” she asked, the words dry.

  A slow red tide rose in his face. It was fascinating to watch, though she couldn’t tell whether it was from embarrassment or anger. Even his eyes appeared hot as he said, “You should know.”

  “Only because I’ve seen pictures,” she corrected with asperity. “I told you what happened to my wrists and ankles, but you’re too stubborn to recognize the truth when you hear it.”